


The Long Journey Home

by saltsanford



Series: Miles to Go [3]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Background Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne, Background Sarge/Emily Grey, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 11:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltsanford/pseuds/saltsanford
Summary: After the crash, all Wash wanted was to get his team safely off this planet. Now, he will gladly stay here and search forever, if he can only get them back. Missing moment from/expansion of the time Wash, Sarge, Donut and Lopez spent with the Feds on Chorus. On hiatus bc I got majorly distracted by other shows BUT I'LL BE BACK I SWEAR.





	1. Prologue: Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> -i have literally had half of this fic written for a year so I'm FINISHING IT I'm doing it IT'S HAPPENING  
> -this fic will update on Tuesdays, unless life gets in the way, in which case it'll be updated as soon possible!  
> -this is a gen fic and the focus will be platonic relationships. there is some very minor background Sarge/Grey, and some mentioned Doc/Donut (Doc doesn't even appear in this fic). this fic is all wash's POV and there's certainly nothing explicit going on with those background ships, but be aware that they are mentioned/alluded to in case you really dislike those pairings  
> -this is the third part in 'miles to go,' but it's not necessary to read those fics to understand this one. this story expands upon the time wash, sarge, donut and lopez spent with the feds in season 12 cause i always wanted more of that gimme gimme  
> -hope you enjoy! :)

High above him, the sun is bleeding. 

He blinks up at it, groggy, bewildered, wondering just how such a thing could have happened. He cannot quite remember how he got here, but the sun is bleeding and he knows that means something is horribly, horribly wrong. It looks as if it’s melting, slipping and sliding down the slopes of the sky, and he watches it for a while, trying to _think_. He can’t—he can’t even remember his own _name,_ but that doesn’t worry him.

It always comes eventually.

Sound returns slowly. A scream. A curse. Bullets, the _rat-tat-tat_ of machine gun fire, the pop of a pistol, the blast of a hand grenade. Guns mean fighting and fighting means danger and he has to move, _now_. He has to—

_—protect them—_

—figure out what’s happening, has to get his guard back up. Pure instinct has him rolling over and climbing to his feet. His head feels as if it’s cracking right down the middle, shards of glass embedded into the soft, scarred tissue of his brain. The sun is still bleeding in the sky, tilting dangerously as he stands, and it takes far, far longer than it should for him to realize that it’s his goddamn _head_ that’s bleeding, not the sun.

The knowledge that he’s hurt, _bad_ , wakes something up inside of him, and he redoubles his grip on his rifle as he turns his gaze inward. His name is in there, somewhere in the mess that is his head, and so are the names of the people he’s with—people, he’s with _people_ , he knows that, holds onto it with a desperate, terrified strength. He needs to remember, to pull it together, to remember his _name_ , but he cannot find it among the messy, upturned boxes in his mind. He’s been here before, he’s always found it, but—

This time, someone else gives it to him.

“Wash! Wash, come on!”

_My name is Agent Washington my friends call me Wash I am the leader of Blue Team friends call me Wash friends call me Wash—_

_Tucker,_ he thinks, or says. That’s Tucker calling his name, and sure enough when he looks, he sees Tucker waving at him frantically from the gaping mouth of a cave. Tucker is here, which means Caboose is close by too, and so is Grif, and Simmons, and Donut, and—

Sarge. The bright red armor catches his eye, and Wash half-turns to see Sarge sprawled out on the ground not far from his own location. He’s unconscious. Wash refuses to believe anything different.

His gaze wanders around the rest of the canyon, and as he takes in the strangely armored soldiers, it comes back to him. Chorus. The New Republic. Felix, and the crash, and—

_I’m not going to make it._

It’s not the finality of the statement that leaves him reeling, but rather, the utter devastation that he feels at it. The anguish, that his journey ends here, that there will be no more pancakes in Blue Base, no more chasing down Sarge for his toolkit, no more hugs from Caboose. He wants those things at least once more, more than he’s ever wanted _anything,_ but—

He needs his team safe.

He looks to Tucker, to Sarge, to the soldiers dying all around him.

Back to Tucker, his armor gleaming bright and blue in the midday sun.

So very, very blue.

_My name is Agent Washington. My friends call me Wash. I am the leader of Blue Team._

He tears his eyes from Tucker for the last time, and turns his gaze determinedly to Freckles.

“Freckles! _Shake_.”

“Hey, hey _no!_ What are you doing?”

A flash of aqua armor, the rumble of falling rocks.

A split second of silence, and Agent Washington knows his name no more.


	2. 1.1: Blood

When Agent Washington wakes up, it is to the taste of lemons, of all things.

The taste is sharp and tangy on his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth and climbing down the back of his throat. It’s so strong that it makes him retch, body jerking to a sit, hands coming up to his helmet to claw at the seals. He spends several moments fumbling with the clasps before he realizes why he’s having so much trouble: his wrists are cuffed in front of him, sturdy, military-grade metal encasing them and leaving no hope for escape.

A cold wash of fear slips down his spine, but the immediate need to vomit is gone. It’s replaced by something even more instinctual, something that goes beyond familiar, telling him to wake up. Assess. _Survive_.

Once more, someone gives his name back to him. “Oh, _Wash!_ You’re awake!”

Wash turns, struggling to push himself up from where he’s half slumped on the floor. He squints in the general direction of the voice, stomach sinking as pink armor fills his vision. “Donut?”

“Right here,” Donut says, and his voice is so strangely soothing that for a moment Wash can only stare. Donut shouldn’t be speaking to him like that, like he’s _worried,_ and what’s more, Donut _shouldn_ _’t be here._

“I thought…” Wash shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly against the nausea the movement brings. “I thought…Sarge…”

He turns in a panic and finds Sarge there on his right, eyes closed and helmet tossed in a corner. Sarge’s hands are bound in front of him as well, a hastily applied bandage slapped across his shoulder where the Kevlar has been slashed to the skin, and that’s good, because if Sarge has a bandage then it means….

“He’s alive,” Donut says brightly.

The relief that courses through him doesn’t last, replaced by a guilt so strong he wants to drown in it. He fucked up, _bad_. “Donut, I…I’m sorry, I thought…”

Donut goes still, and Wash hastens to continue. “I..I didn’t realize you hadn’t gotten through the wall yet. I didn’t…”

“Oh, I see!” Donut stands, hands flying to his hips as he stares down at Wash. “ _You_ thought it was just going to be you and Sarge having each others’ backsides out here, is that it? Just two rough and tough old leaders, all alone fending off the bad guys?”

“Well—”

“Because let me tell you something, mister,” Donut continues, “I know a thing or two about watching another man’s backside, and I am more than happy to turn this twosome into a threesome! So I don’t want to hear another apology out of you, got it?”

“But—”

“I _said_ , got it?”

“I…fine.” Wash takes a breath, casting his eyes around the small room they’re in. “Any idea where we are?”

“Wherever it is, we haven’t gotten there yet,” Donut frets. “We’ve been driving for _hours_ now!”

Too late, Wash realizes that they’re in some sort of cargo van, and he braces his bound hands against the wall as they whip around a sharp turn. He glances towards the back door, but Donut shakes his head. “I’ve tried. It won’t budge.”

Wash tries to rise anyway. He’s no sooner pushed himself to a stand when the nausea hits again, so sharp this time that he stumbles down to one knee. Donut makes a little squeak of concern and moves toward him, reaching for his helmet, but Wash gets his hands up. “Don’t,” he says harshly, and Donut stops at once, his own cuffed hands held palm out. “Don’t. I’m fine, just….”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, ignoring the insistent pulsing of _not fine, not fine, not fine,_ somewhere deep inside his skull. He’s had enough head injuries to know that something’s _wrong_ , very wrong, and he opens his mouth, hesitating. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst idea to remove his helmet, get a sense of what’s going on, before his eyes land on Sarge once more. He’s still unconscious, which means that it’s on _Wash_ to handle this, to keep them safe.

Wash swallows hard and pushes himself towards the door, catching himself against it with his hands. Bile rises in the back of his throat, sharp and citrusy, and Donut whimpers a little behind him. “Oh, _Wash_ , sit down, please—”

Wash throws off Donut’s arm before he can stop himself. Donut’s flinch is almost infinitesimal, but Wash still sees it and he drops his arm awkwardly. “I—sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Donut says quickly. “But Wash, you _really_ shouldn’t be walking around…”

He trails off with a sigh of relief as Wash sits heavily back in his seat, examining the heavy cuffs around his wrists. “Has anyone been back here to check on us?”

“No, not at—wait, what are you doing?!”

“I’m trying…to…” Wash curses under his breath, readjusting his arms so that he can better tug at his armor. “Trying to get this healing unit out.”

“What?! Why?”

Wash glances at him, surprised. “So I can give it to Sarge.”

“Oh—but Wash, Sarge is fine—”

He shoots Donut an incredulous look. “Sarge is unconscious!”

“So were _you_ —”

“And now I’m not—”

“Then why won’t you take off your helmet?”

Wash shakes his head, redoubling his efforts to remove the healing unit. After another minute, he manages to unsnap it from the slot on his chestpiece. He can’t stop the gasp that tears itself unbidden from his chest the moment the healing unit comes free, nor can he stop himself from slumping. The pain in his head seems to double, a sickening, swaying feeling of wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , pounding deep in the center of his skull. It _hurts,_ both the place where he is bleeding and somewhere else, somewhere deep inside of him.

He pushes himself to his feet anyway, stumbling over to where Sarge is leaned against the side of the van. Donut is hovering over him once more, his words loud and fretful although Wash cannot make them out. It takes every ounce of his concentration to snap the healing unit into Sarge’s armor, but he manages it, and the unit hums to life.

Wash sits back, relieved, only to find Donut less than a foot away from his face. His hands are waving around Wash’s helmet as if he’s about to remove it, but Wash bats them away weakly. “Donut…m’fine…Sarge is hurt…””

“Yes! Exactly! You’re _both_ hurt, and you’re both big fat idiots! _Why won_ _’t you just—_ ”

The van lurches to a halt so unexpectedly that Donut nearly goes flying. He grabs at the wall instead, managing to keep his feet as his gaze snaps back to Wash’s. They both glance at Sarge, and without thinking, Wash reaches for Sarge’s helmet, securing it back over his head.

“Just in case,” he mutters to Donut, who is now standing at the door, his ear pressed to the metal. “Donut, get back from there!”

Donut waves him quiet, and Wash forces himself to his feet once more, everything in his body protesting the movement. He leans heavily against the door, heart racing as he tries to make out the words. “I think we’re there,” Donut whispers. “Oh, no…:”

“Well, it’s about time!”

They both turn to see Sarge pushing himself to a stand, rubbing at his head. “Sarge, sit back down—”

“Could say the same to you, Washington! Swooning on your feet like a baby…a baby…” Sarge pauses, turning thoughtfully to Donut. “Quick, gimme an animal! One with wobbly legs!”

“A deer!”

Sarge scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “Baby deer legs! I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous in my whole entire life! What about….dolphin legs?”

“But _Sarge,_ ” Donut says plaintively, “dolphin’s don’t _have_ legs!”

“’Course they don’t, Donut! That’s the point! And this! What in Sam Hill is this contraption doing in my armor?”

Sarge is fumbling with the clasps on his armor. It takes Wash several moments of watching blearily to realize that Sarge is removing the healing unit. His vision is swimming now, spotting brightly, and he closes his eyes to try to reorient himself. “Sarge…don’t…”

“Can it, princess,” Sarge snaps, wrenching the healing unit out of his armor and waving it menacingly at Wash. “Man’s gotta know when he’s hurt!”

“Yeah, Wash,” Donut adds, “just sit down and let Sarge stick the thing in your slot!”

Sarge mutters something in response that Wash misses as he jerks backwards when Sarge moves towards him. His vision goes black for a moment, and when he comes to, he’s surprised to find himself hunched over, hands pressed to his visor. “Oh,” he mumbles, as his head throbs sickeningly. “Shit.”

Wash can’t stop it this time, the way his body gives out, all at once. Donut lets out a cry as he pitches forward but Sarge is ready, breaking his fall with an arm across Wash’s chest. Wash lets Sarge lower him to the ground, couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to. He can’t stop Donut from removing his helmet either, popping the seals and easing it gently off of Wash’s head.

Sarge lets out a low whistle as Donut pulls the helmet off with whimper. Wash closes his eyes—his face feels hot and wet and he can’t find the words to tell them that he’s fine, he’s fine—

“C’boose,” he slurs inexplicably instead,”C’boose…”

“Outta throw you out of this van,” Sarge grumps. “Mistaking me for a damn dirty blue!”

There’s the _snaphiss_ of the healing unit pulling free of Sarge’s armor, and Wash makes a noise of protest. “Quit your bellyaching!”

The healing unit slots into his armor once more, but the relief it offers is minimal this time. He’d given this healing unit to Caboose once when he was hurt, but he’s not there to give it to him now when he could need it even more desperately.

He must’ve said some of that out loud, because there’s a sharp tap to his cheek and he turns to see Sarge leaning over him. “Knock that right off. The boys in blue are fine.”

Something light touches his forehead, and he flinches before he realizes Donut is pressing something cool to his temples. Nausea swoops through it, and Wash retches, pushes them both to the side, and vomits. “Oh, no—Sarge, he’s sick, he’s really hurt—Wash, just don’t worry about a thing—”

The van doors open with no warning, and Wash tries to push himself up. He makes it to his hands and knees before he collapses back down, trembling. In his peripheral, he can barely make out the red blur that is Sarge standing in front of him and Donut, who remains behind, a hand on Wash’s shoulder. Shame burns through him, because _he_ should be standing there, at least _with_ Sarge if not in front of him, _he_ should be protecting them—they should be far away from here, safe with Caboose and Tucker and Grif and Simmons—

Are _they safe?_ A tiny voice whispers in his ear. _Are they_ really _, though?_

“What seems to be the problem here?”

A fresh wave of adrenaline courses through him at that voice, and he _remembers_ —waking up on the battlefield, green and grey hovering over him, _I_ _’m not a monster I’m a soldier like you like you like you like you—_

He lifts his head off the ground just in time to see that same green and grey blurring in his vision. There’s the sound of yelling from both Sarge and Donut, and a loud bang. Wash thinks he can see some of the pirates pushing Sarge against the wall, pulling Donut away from him, and before he can make sense of it all, a hand grabs his face, forcing his head up.

Locus has dropped to one knee in front of him, gripping Wash’s chin with one hand. Wash tries to jerk away, fingers scrabbling at Locus’s wrist, but his grip holds fast, tightening painfully on Wash’s jaw. “He’s injured,” he growls. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Of course he’s injured!” Donut shrieks indignantly. _“You’re_ the one who _did_ it—”

“Donut,” Wash chokes out, “don’t—”

There’s a scuffle and a yelp from Donut, and Wash jerks harder, tearing out of Locus’s grip. “Leave them alone,” he snarls, grabbing at Locus’s wrist more forcefully this time. “Leave—”

Locus wrenches his arm away, but makes no move to grab Wash again. “He needs medical attention,” he says instead, standing. “Bring him to the doctor.”

“No,” Wash manages. The world is a blur of colors and he can no longer see what’s happening, but he still struggles when someone grabs his arms. He can’t go to a doctor, because doctors mean hospitals and hospitals means restraint and he _won_ _’t_ —

The nausea overwhelms him and he vomits once more. His head is hanging weakly against his chestplate and he cannot lift it, cannot see, cannot make out the words his friends are saying, cannot…cannot…

Lemons. Someone had once told him that you tasted lemons just before you died—York, it was York and Wash had never been able to figure out if he was joking about that or not, but it doesn’t matter now. The smell is overwhelming, suffocating all of his other senses, and it becomes nearly unbearable just before the world goes black once more.


	3. 1.2: Scarlet

_The snow is falling softly around him, but Agent Washington is not cold._

_He feels pleasantly warm, even as snowflakes gather in his hair, even though he cannot remember how he got here. There is a brightly lit cabin up ahead, but it appears to be the only building in these woods. The cabin looks warm and inviting, and Wash has no sooner taken a hesitant step forward when the door opens, and someone begins to walk towards him._

_Wash tenses, but there_ _’s something familiar about the person coming towards him and besides, it’s difficult to feel tense in such a place. He brushes some of the snow out of his hair as the visitor approaches—female, several inches shorter than him, with close cropped hair and a sharp, seeing gaze—_

 _“Connie,” he breathes, as she finally comes close enough to see properly. “_ Connie? _”_

 _Her smile lights up the woods. It_ is _Connie, right here in front of him. She looks so real, with the snow caught in her dark hair and her breath fogging up in the cold, but she can_ _’t be real, because—_

Agent Connecticut has been killed in action the retrieval of her armor is futile Counselor be sure to change the logs to reflect that Agent Connecticut is KIA KIA KIA—

_Oh._

_Wash once thought he_ _’d feel relieved when this day came. He has long pulled himself out of that pit, has stopped trying to rip his demons straight out of his skull, and now that he’s here, he feels…_

 _Wash gasps when her hand comes up to touch his face, stroking gently before giving him a sharp pat._ _“Expressive as ever, I see. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”_

 _It_ _’s so absurd that Wash can’t help but laugh, a short, startled burst that seems too loud in this quiet forest. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”_

_“Oh, come on.” Connie’s hand is still on his face, her palm warm against the chill of his skin. “That was pretty funny.”_

_He catches her palm as it slips away, entangling their fingers together. Her hand is so much smaller than his own, but firm and calloused, the strength in her fingers no less than his own._ _“So—how are you?”_

 _She raises her eyebrows at him, familiar exasperation spreading across her face._ _“Wash.”_

_“I just…” he clears his throat. “I just, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, and—”_

_“Wash.”_

_A sudden burst of laughter sounds from the cabin behind her, and Wash_ _’s eyes flick towards the sound. “They’re all in there, aren’t they?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He hesitates._ _“Can I…?”_

_“Do you want to?”_

_Wash_ _’s eyes drift towards the cabin once more, before he glances behind him. There is nothing behind him, nothing at all to suggest to enormity of what he’s left behind. There is only—_ loss, _that_ _’s the word, the word for how it feels to be standing here in this clearing. The cabin is warm and inviting, and there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to take Connie’s hand and let her lead him in—but the larger part, the truer part, feels an aching sense of wrong, that he isn’t supposed to_ be _here, not now, not like this, not without—_

_Them._

_“Hey hey no,what are you doing?!”_

_Not without them._

_“I have to go,” he says. He glances at Connie. “Can I do that?”_

_“Well,” Connie says slowly, her fingers tightening in his. “I’m not sure, Wash. But…I mean, they do call you a cockroach.”_

_She kisses him then, her lips featherlight on his cheek, and with a final squeeze, her fingers slip from his own. He drinks in the sight of her face, takes one more look at the cabin, and turns on his heel, striding back towards the woods._

_The moment he leaves the clearing, a storm seems to sweep out of nowhere. Wash lifts a hand against the sudden onslaught of snow and wind, icy sharp against his face. With every step he takes, the elements seem to grow more intense—he cannot see, cannot hear, cannot feel anything except the snow and ice. He must have taken a wrong step because suddenly he is falling through the air, a wordless scream trapped in his throat and—_

_He wakes up in the snow, to the smell of spraypaint, of all things—to the smell of pancakes in blue base to antiseptic to the lemony cleaner they used on the floors when he was in recovery he hated it hasn_ _’t been able to eat lemon candy ever since and—_

_The world quiets as he is dropped into the center of his mind, cherry shelves with their colored boxes lined up neatly. Everything is as it should be, so why is he so confused?_

_He steps outside, to a world broken and battered but beautiful all the same. His armor is blue, then grey, he is standing over Donut_ _’s body, Locus is standing over his—_

“Well,” a cheerful voice chirps from somewhere far above him, “that was close.”

* * *

“He gonna be alright?”

“Well, of course! All thanks to me!”

“Hmph.”

“That was some stunt you pulled, Colonel. I must confess that I’m not sure if I should be angry or aroused.”

“…well, why not both?”

* * *

“Why the hell isn’t he awake yet?”

“His implantation was highly stressful—”

“And why was that, Dr. Tronosky?”

“If I knew, I’d surely tell you.”

* * *

He has been here before—many times, too many—but one is real and true, one is only memory and ash. He forces his eyes open enough to make out fuzzy shapes, and a glint like glasses above his head—the Director’s? Or someone else’s?—but before he can wake fully, blackness takes him once more.

* * *

“Agent Washington? Can you hear me?”

* * *

“Hey, hey _no!_ What are you doing?”

* * *

Consciousness is exhausting, so Wash turns to the boxes in his head. They are remarkably intact, sitting pretty on their polished cherry shelves, and he paces the contours of his mind, restless and impatient. He thinks he knows where he is, which makes it all the more imperative that he wake. There is something red and raw in his head, but it isn’t from his mind splitting at the seams. This was—this was done to him, by someone who hurt him, who—

 _I_ _’m a soldier like you—_

* * *

When consciousness finally comes, it comes slowly, a dull ache in his skull where before the pain was sharp and lancing. He is aware of the restraints around his wrists even before he is aware of the pain, and for a moment he panics, tugging at them hard, forcing his eyes open—

The world is all bright colors and loud, frantic voices, but he cannot make sense out of any of it. _Something_ woke him up, some combination of noise and instincts honed over years of wartime warning him of impending danger. His head lurches sickeningly as he tries to sit and gather his bearings, and he falls back against the pillow, gasping.

Not for long. Wash flinches at the feel of armored hands on his bare skin, tugging impatiently at the restraints. He jerks his hands to his chest once they’re freed, trying to cover his center, to squint through his blurring vision—he has to focus, has to think—

“On your feet, Agent Washington.”

Adrenaline spikes through him at that voice, and he jerks hard, pressing his shoulders to the metal bars of his hospital bed. “No,” he says, meaning for it to sound sharp and authoritative, but instead it comes out as a weak, thready gasp. He squints, forcing his vision to focus, ignoring the sharp, sick throbbing at the base of his skull, and the world finally narrows to shades of green and grey: Locus, looming over him.

Another voice rings out behind Locus, loud and unhappy, although he cannot see the speaker. “Now, _really!_ This is a hospital— _my_ hospital, if you please, and—”

“It is your hospital because I _allow_ it to be your hospital.”

“Well, then I suppose I’ll just keep that in mind next time you need a band-aid— _hey!_ Take your hands off my patient at once!”

Locus draws back, turning to glance over his shoulder. “This is taking too long. He’s _fine_. We don’t have _time_ for this. He is to be given back his armor and—”

“Well, excu-uuuuse me, but he just had brain surgery three days ago and— _Locus!_ ”

But Wash is ready this time. When Locus grabs for him again, he lunges forward with the scalpel he’s grabbed, stabbing it hard towards Locus’s neck. He jerks back, and Wash’s swing goes wild. Locus takes advantage of the moment, clamping a hand down hard on the back of Wash’s neck—below his implants, below his surgical scar, but it’s far too close and Wash yelps as he is yanked forward, stumbling onto the floor. “Get your hands off of me,” he snarls, voice stronger this time even as the world tips and sways.

The doctor is still yelling, but Wash blocks her voice out, his vision tunneling to focus only on Locus. Wash lunges once more towards the fallen tray of surgical instruments, grabbing for a needle filled with god knows what, and shoves it into Locus’s thigh, depressing the plunger—

He yelps as Locus grabs his wrist, twisting it back hard and yanking Wash to his feet. Locus pulls him around with the arm behind his back, the other grabbing the needle and holding it to Wash’s neck. “Move,” he says lowly in Wash’s ear. “Now.”

Wash grits his teeth. “Where are my men?”

“If you _move,_ I will _show you._ ”

“And if I don’t?”

The chuckle sends a chill down his spine. “That would be a foolish choice.”

It’s a risk he can’t take. Lifting his chin as much as he is able, Wash steps stiffly forward, Locus following close behind him. He’s all too aware of the fact that he’s in a flimsy hospital scrubs and Locus is is full power armor—as are all of the other soldiers they pass, winding through the hallways until—

“Wash!”

Wash glances around wildly until he sees Donut waving at him, Sarge rising to a stand at his side. The relief at seeing them both alive and (as far as he can tell) unharmed is nearly staggering. The sight of them both in a cell sends a hot spike of anger pulsing through him, and he twists as best as he’s able to try to see Locus. “If you’ve hurt them—”

“Save the theatrics, Agent Washington,” says Locus, sounding nearly bored. He nods at a nearby guard, who unlocks the cell, and shoves Wash unceremoniously inside.

Wash crashes unsteadily into Donut, who steadies him with a little whimper as Sarge swells besides them, surging forward. “Why, you dirty little—”

There’s a crash and a grunt, and Sarge is sprawling out on the floor besides them. “Don’t,” Wash snarls, pushing away from Donut and lunging at the bars towards Locus. “Don’t—”

The cell door slams in his face, and Wash grips the bars tightly, glaring at Locus’s retreating back. He waits until he’s certain that the mercenary is gone before stumbling towards the tiny bathroom and falling to his knees, vomiting into the toilet.

He thinks he must fall unconscious for a moment, forehead pressed into the cold porcelain seat, because he has no memory of how a soft blanket came to be around his shoulders. Donut is patting gently at his back, a glass of water in his other hand that he presses into Wash’s. “Here. Drink.”

Wash accepts the glass gratefully, and once he’s sure he’s going to keep the water down, he pushes to sit back against the wall, wiping a shaking hand across his brow. “What happened?”

“What happened is that Locus is a big old meanie,” Donut huffs, sitting cross-legged in front of Wash. “Not to mention he has _atrocious_ manners!”

“You ain’t wrong,” says Sarge, and Wash looks up to see him leaning against the door frame, arms folded. “Tried to teach him a lesson, but—”

“Are you alright?” Wash interrupts, remembering the crash just before Locus had left. He glances between the two of them. They’re both wearing their fatigues—better than the ridiculous hospital scrubs he’s in—and appear unharmed. “Both of you—are you okay? Did they do anything to you?”

“We’re fine,” says Sarge with an eye roll. “Quit fretting!”

“But did they—?”

“They didn’t lay a finger on us, Wash!” Donut says, patting his forearm affectionately. “Really, we were just worried about _you,_ not to mention bored out of our skulls! Does your head hurt something awful?”

“It doesn’t feel great,” Wash admits, lifting a hand to cup his implants. “But I’ll be alright.”

“Heard that one before,” Sarge mutters. “Look, if you’re not up for rotating in the watch tonight, be a man and say so. Don’t need anyone falling asleep on us!”

“You’ve been keeping a watch?”

Sarge eyes him. “Sure have! And if you’re about to tell me it’s overkill—”

“I was about to tell you that’s a good idea,” Wash says wryly. He scrubs a hand over his face. “What time is it, anyway?”

“After dark,” Donut says. “Or, well. It would be if we had a window.”

“Rations first,” Sarge says briskly. “Then, I’ll take first watch.”

“I can take first watch—” Wash begins automatically, before Sarge cuts him off.

“I said what I said, Washington!” he bellows, nearly beaning Wash in the head with a protein bar. Wash only eats it to stop Donut from making distressed noises, then slips into the bunk that had been reserved for him. He doesn’t expect to sleep, but for once, his body falls into a light dose, the stress of the surgery very nearly overtaking his hyper-vigilance. Still, he’s relieved when it’s his turn, and he takes a seat near the front of their cell, watching, waiting.

* * *

 

The next two days are so uneventful that Wash wants to scream. He tries to conserve his energy, to stay focused for the inevitable fight ahead, to not fall into too deep a sleep, lest he have the sort of nightmare that would put Sarge and Donut in danger. The memory of his hands around Tucker’s throat on Rockslide is still fresh, will probably always be fresh. He will not make that mistake again.

On the morning of the third day, they all surge to their feet as the doors are opened, and their armor shoved through. “You have one hour,” says one of the soldiers, before stalking off.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Sarge asks, as the three of them stare at each other.

Wash doesn’t waste much time to think about it, just snaps his armor on gratefully. When the soldiers come back and order them to stick their hands out, he holds out his wrists, grits his teeth, and marches forward with Sarge and Donut at his side.


	4. 1.3: Cardinal

The walk is a long one, made all the more tense by the fact that none of them have any idea where they’re going. Wash drinks in every detail of their surroundings, hoping to mark the exits and formulate at least the bare bones of a plan. The longer they walk, however, the deeper his heart sinks. He doesn’t see a single exit, not even a window. Wherever sort of base this is, they’re in the heart of it.

There are no shortage of armored soldiers as they walk, every single one of whom is staring at them, some more obviously than others. Sarge is throwing all sorts of vitriol at the onlookers, but Wash is silent, struck by the fact that these soldiers appear…nervous? He can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but they certainly don’t look happy about the current situation.

Sarge keeps up his ranting as they’re herded into a room, the door slamming behind them. Wash clenches his fists at the sound, forcing his thoughts away from the cuffs circling his wrists, from the finality of the metal door clanging shut and cutting off their only escape. Focus. He has to focus, and prepare himself for what’s coming next. Whatever it is, it certainly won’t be good. They’ll want information, whoever these people are, and they’ll be willing to hurt them to get it. Wash must be prepared for that eventuality, must prepare himself to try to convince their captors that he’s the more valuable target than Sarge and Donut.

By the time he hears the call of, “officer on deck,” Agent Washington is ready for anything.

Except, as it turns out, for the man who stands in front of them to not only apologize, not only order for them to be uncuffed, but to _return their weapons to them._

Wash gapes, some numb part in the back of his mind grateful that he’s wearing his helmet. He all but snatches his battle rifle out of the soldier’s hands, checking to make sure that it’s loaded. He’s still a little shocked to find that it _is_ , and as he slams the mag back in, the world sharpens, his mind goes calm and steel cold, he focuses on the man in front of them. “Okay, wait, stop. Stop!”

The soldier fidgets nervously, “Um, what is it, Agent Washington?”

This is a joke. It has to be. “What is it? What is it? First, you send men to kill us. Then you send men to capture us. And now that we’re here, you’re giving us guns and saying you’re sorry?”

“Uh…” the soldier fidgets, glancing side to side at the men who’d dragged them in. One of them shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

The soldier who shrugged snickers and Wash’s rage deepens. Funny, they think it’s _funny_ that—that—

He aims his gun at the man in front of them. “Only for you, if you don’t—”

“Oh dear,” the soldier says weakly, and collapses onto the ground.

“What a weenie,” Donut whispers.

The soldiers around the perimeter move, but Wash is faster. _< Cover me,>_ he snaps to Sarge and Donut over the radio, before he lunges forward and presses his battle rifle against the visor of their unconscious leader (faking, he has to be). “Anyone takes another step, and I kill him.”

Sarge and Donut both have the presence of mind to listen and get their guns up to cover him. The other soldiers glance at each other nervously, guns half-raised as if they don’t know where to point them. “They said you were gonna help us,” one of them says reproachfully to Wash, and it’s such a bizarre statement that Wash can only gape.

“You’re the ones who are going to be helping me,” he says, once he’s recovered his voice, “by explaining to us what the hell is going on.”

“So…that’s….” The soldier who snickered earlier glances around as he fidgets. “That’s…a little above our pay grade?”

“Well, I’d suggest—”

He has to hand it to the soldier who has taken advantage of the confusion to inch around on Wash’s right and very nearly gets the jump on him. Wash gets his pistol up just in time, pointing it at the soldier, who has her gun up as well.

“Ali, go get Dr. Grey,” her voice comes calmly. “Tell her that General Doyle has fainted…again. And _you_ ,” she says to Wash, “lower your weapons. Now.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You want answers? He’s the one who can give them to you. He’s no good to you dead.”

“Fuckin’ tell him, Sabine,” one of the soldiers whispers loudly.

“Lower your weapons,” Sabine says again to Wash, “and we’ll make sure you get those answers.”

“If you think I’m—”

“Fitz, shoot the pink one.”

“Uh—”

“Fitz,” says Sarge, cocking his shotgun, “ _don_ _’t_ shoot the pink one.”

“So uh, I don’t really want to shoot anyone, actually—”

“You know what,” Donut says brightly, “I think we could all use some fresh air! Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Wash considers this, impressed. It would be a good idea for them to get outside, find the exits. “Fine,” Wash says. “We go wait outside, and then, I want answers.”

To his surprise, they’re only a few doors away from the outside which is a snowy, chilly landscape. Wash’s heart sinks: it had been hot and dry in the canyon where they’d ship-wrecked. They must be very far from the others indeed.

For nearly ten minutes, they stand there in silence, watching the Feds who are keeping an eye on them mill around. “I don’t understand,” Wash says finally. “None of this makes any sense.”

His bafflement only grows as the man who’d fainted appears with the doctor, who tells him to take it easy before nearly skipping off. “Gentlemen,” says the man, “I’m afraid I have nothing but apologies for you toady. It must be the thin air up here, I-I’ve been doing a lot of traveling lately and my body’s still adjusting to—”

Wash approaches, keeping a firm grip on his rifle but not pointing it at the man. “Doyle, right?”

“Oh, uh…well, yes! Very observant. General Donald Doyle of the Federal Army of Chorus at your service.”

“At our service?” Sarge grunts, baffled.

“Full service?” Donut quips.

“Okay General,” Wash says, striving to keep his voice calm. Calm. “Let me catch you up to speed on what the past few days have been like for me. I've got a canyon of shipwrecked survivors all trying to hail a rescue, when a squad of soldiers, all wearing your uniform, come down and attack us with their leader, a big black suited son of a bitch who goes by the name Locus. Then once he leaves, I've got another guy named Felix telling me you and yours have been terrorizing this planet and to top it all off, that we're wanted men for crashing on it in the first place! So please, if you could do your best to convince me not to kill you this very second, that would REALLY BENEFIT THE BOTH OF US!”

So much for calm, as Sarge coughs nervously and adds an affirmative. Wash hates when he does that—reminds them of who he really is, what he’s capable of, where he comes from—but sometimes, it’s necessary.

“Tell me, how much do you know about the New Republic?” Doyle is asking now.

“They don’t try to kill us, for starters,” Sarge says, while Donut nods vigorously.

Wash sighs. “They’re rebels, fighting to overthrow a corrupt leadership. They heard our distress call and hoped we could help.”

He listens hard while Doyle explains. About a war on Chorus, about the rebels that the other half of his guys are with, committing acts of terrorism. About riots in the streets and exploding buildings, about panic and death. About, disconcertingly, his lack of control over Locus, and his failing in outlining the exact method of their acquisition. About Doyle’s lack of military expertise.

In the end, he has no idea what to make of any of it.

There’s…something wrong here. Something off, about this planet, about these mercenaries, about this whole goddamn thing. Wash tucks these misgivings away for now, to file them away for the inevitable sleepless nights that are to come, and focuses on the most important thing Doyle has said so far:

“The New Republic has your men and I can promise you, they are likely recruiting them into their rebellion as we speak. Now, I can inform my troops not to attack them, but I cannot stop them from defending themselves. I’m…also unable to promise you a safe escape from Chorus in the middle of this conflict. Most of our ships are shot down before they can escape the atmosphere.”

Wash grits his teeth. Fantastic. “So what can you promise us?”

“If you can help us defeat these terrorists, it would not only save our planet, it would also save your comrades. Then, once the skies are clear, you can leave this forsaken planet once and for all!”

Wash finds himself looking to Sarge, who is already looking his way. “Hmph. I don’t like it, but I’m not really seeing another way out.” He levels a thoughtful gaze towards Doyle. “Unless beating you unconscious would somehow work.”

“Highly doubtful…”

“Drat,” sighs Sarge. “I guess I’m in.”

Wash turns to Donut, who nods confidently. “No man left behind, right?”

Right. Wash turns to Doyle once more. “I still have one question for you, General.”

“Which is…?”

“Where are our robots?”

* * *

Wash watches as Sarge hovers over the Fed technician who is working on rebooting Lopez. He’s caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness as Sarge offers suggestions, some helpful, most not. But in the end, Lopez is up and moving, Sarge and Donut are thrilled, and Wash turns to the technician. “Now, what about Freckles?”

The Fed stares at Wash as if waiting for the punchline. “Uh, what’s a ‘Freckles?’”

“Agent Washington is referring to a MANTIS-class military assault droid,” says a voice that’s becoming entirely too familiar, sending the hair on the back of Wash’s neck standing straight up. “And you won’t find it among this wreckage.”

“Ahah…I’ll uh, just look somewhere else then,” the technician mutters, and high-tails it out of there so fast he’s practically running.

Wash takes advantage of his departure to position himself in front of Sarge, Donut, and Lopez, getting his rifle up immediately. “Locus.”

Locus nonetheless advances. Wash makes a point of flipping the safety off of his gun. “The droid was malfunctioning. It refused to surrender, and was therefore destroyed.”

“He’s dead?” Donut gasps. Wash feels a small, absurd pride in Caboose’s robot.

“It was a machine,” Locus says blankly. “It had no life to begin with.”

“ _Culiado,_ ” Lopez mutters.

“You know, it takes a lot of nerve to come strolling in here after what you did!”

Locus turns towards Sarge. “Does my presence upset you, Sergeant?”

“It gives me an itchy trigger finger, I can tell you that.”

Enough. “What do you want?” Wash snaps.

Locus regards him closely. “Aside from my initial examination, the men under my command were ordered to take you alive. All attacks were intended to wound, all shots were designed to intimidate. Let me assure you my raid on your base was calculated, choreographed, and designed to apprehend you. Like herding sheep to the pen. Were it not for the intervention of the mercenary and his forces, I would've succeeded entirely.”

“And what, is that supposed to make us feel better?” Sarge snaps. Wash feels a stab of vindictive pleasure at Sarge’s obvious distrust of Locus. “’Cause quite honestly, it’s having the opposite effect!”

“It’s supposed to make you understand.”

“ _Yo entiendo que eres un culiado_.”

To his surprise, Locus turns back to Wash. “Agent Washington, I am a professional. I follow orders, and I complete my mission at all costs.”

“I don’t care what you think you are,” Wash says evenly. “You just stay away from me and my men.”

“You still don’t understand. Or perhaps…you do.”

“What?”

“Excuse me!” a voice chirps from behind Locus. “If someone tells you to leave them alone, you leave them alone.”

The speaker’s voice is incredibly familiar, as are the purple stripes on her armor, and Wash can tell that she’s glaring daggers at Locus even through her helmet.

“Of course, doctor,” Locus says smoothly. Wash tightens his grip on his rifle as Locus turns, holding something out to Wash. “Here.”

“What is this?”

“Before your droid was dismantled, I had a technician remove its primary storage unit. Its heart and mind, so to speak.”

Wash slowly removes one hand from his gun, snatching the chip from Locus and pocketing it at once. “Is this supposed to be some sort of apology?”

“Is it?”

“This guy doesn’t make any sense,” Donut whispers loudly.

“ _Se debe a que esta loco,_ ” Lopez whispers back, and to everyone’s surprise, Locus tenses.

“I am not.”

“ _ALARMA,_ ” Lopez bellows, backing up at once. “ _EL ES BILINGUE. POR FAVOR NO ME MATES._ ”

Locus ignores him, his stare never leaving Wash’s visor. “You give meaning to meaningless objects and meaningless people, and risk your lives to protect them. Where’s the sense in that? I look forward to your answer, soldier.”

With that, he leaves, and the woman with the purple-striped armor steps forward. Wash lowers his gun slightly. “Sorry about that! I promise the rest of us aren’t like him. I’m Dr. Grey.”

“Oooooh, a doctor!” says Donut. “That’s like a medic who saves people!”

Sarge chuckles. “You a civilian, little lady?”

Wash side-eyes him. There’s something knowing in his tone, something that speaks to an inside joke, but he’s distracted by the somewhat hysterical laughter coming from Dr. Grey. “Civilian? I don’t think you realize how bad this planet’s gotten. The only people not wearing armor these days are dead!”

“I know you,” Wash says suddenly. “Your voice.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Grey says brightly. “Oh, well I performed surgery on you after they brought you here. Sorry if you find a few new scars. A shot from a concussion rifle isn’t bad, but a severe injury to the back of the skull can be a little tricky. Especially when your head is filled with pretty little wires and chips. I hope I didn’t damage those neural implants.”

Wash takes a second to digest that. “I’m…sure they’re fine. Thank you?”

“You can thank me by ending this war as soon as possible! Bullet wounds and prosthetic limbs have become so booooring. So, come by my office tomorrow morning for a check-up. Once you’re cleared, you three will be shipping off.”

“Shipping off?”

“Where are we going?” asks Donut.

Dr. Grey waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t give people orders, boys, I just fix them when they break! Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be back. Tomorrow morning. My office. 0800.”

“Mmm,” Sarge says thoughtfully. “Well, what do you fellas think?”

Donut pauses to consider. “I think she’s…nice!”

“Not the doc, Donut, the army!” snaps Sarge. “The general! The whole dealio! Grif and Simmons are out there with the Blues! Alone, confused! Probably eating, and complaining, and back talking! God damn it Grif, just shut up already!”

Wash doesn’t see any way around it. “We do what we have to do, and go along with it for now. I just…hope the others aren’t in too deep without us.”

“They are,” Sarge says confidently.

“Sarge!” Donut says reproachfully, as Wash turns to glare at him. “That’s not helping!”

“What? All the more reason for us to get out of here as quickly as possible!”

“Now that, I agree with,” Wash says grimly, as a soldier comes back in the room.

“Uh…if you’re ready, I can show you to your room?”

“Ooooh, yes! Yes please!” says Donut, as Wash and Sarge exchange a look.

“May as well,” sighs Sarge, and the three of them leave the room, Wash reaching down to touch the Freckles chip reassuringly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know there was a lot of regurgitating the show in this chapter, but i couldn't see a way around it and REALLY didn't want to just skip over these events as they're...kind of important. but since this is pretty much the ONLY bit of canon we get for wtf wash/sarge/donut/lopez were doing that whole time, we got 13 more juicy chapters of fic nonsense to play with, WHOO HOOO
> 
> thanks for reading guys, it's so lovely to hear from you again! <3


	5. 1.4: Ruby

It takes less than an hour for Wash to start regretting his decision to go along with it, and he suspects that Sarge is as well. But neither of them say anything, just exchange a few darkly significant looks as one of the Federalist soldiers they met earlier leads them to their quarters, talking cheerfully the whole time. It’s an awkward journey, as half the soldiers they pass stop dead in their tracks to stare at them, and _all_ of the soldiers stop talking completely. Wash keeps his gun up the entire time, but no one approaches, although Wash doesn’t think their stares are all entirely friendly. It seems to take ages to get to where the soldier is leading them, but eventually he stops, waving his hand at a nondescript door. “Here we all!” he says brightly, already heading back down the hallway in the direction that they came. “Your room.”

Wash isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it isn’t a tiny room with two sets of bunk beds on opposing walls. “Sarge already claimed both beds on the left on the walk over,” Donut is saying as he removes his helmet, “so that leaves you and I with the set on the right. I took the bottom, but I don’t mind switching! I always took you for more of a bottom type of guy, so—”

“Waaait,” Wash interrupts, slowly. “Wait. You’re saying that we have to _share_ this room? All three of us?”

“That’s right!” Donut says. “It’ll be just like a sleepover! Oh, it’ll be great—the three of us staying up late, bonding—maybe watching a movie—oh! Perhaps a bottle of wine—it can’t be that hard to find wine here, can it? Maybe I can ask Doyle—”

“Donut, wait.” Wash interrupts. “We…we can’t hare a room.”

Donut frowns at him. “Well, we just shared a cell, silly! Why is this different?”

 _Because it appears that we aren’t in immediate danger and who knows how long we’ll be stuck here._ “It just is.”

Sarge scoffs, shouldering past him to collapse onto the left bottom bunk, which creeks ominously under the weight of his armor. “Well, I’m not happy about having to share quarters with a dirty blue, but you don’t see me complaining, do you?”

Wash rolls his eyes. “I give it about five minutes before you start complain—”

“Now, listen here, Washington, and listen good!” Sarge gestures down the middle of the room, where, Wash notices for the first time, there’s a thick piece of red duct tape down the center of the room.

“How…who put that tape there?!”

“Never mind who put it there! This side here—” Sarge points towards himself— “is red base! Your side is blue base! There will be no crossing sides at all, _whatsoever,_ or I’ll be forced to take drastic action!”

“Sarge…” Wash rubs at his forehead through his helmet. He can already feel a headache coming on. “Then why is Donut bunking on _my_ side of the room?”

There’s a short pause before Sarge answers. “Well, it’s obvious! This side of the room and the _top_ bunk of that one is Red Base! What matters is that you stay on that side, and Donut and I will stay on this side, plus the top bunk of that one!”

“Oh, really?” Wash folds his arms across his chest. “So, we can’t cross the tape at all? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying!”

“Then how are you going to get in and out of the room?”

Wash watches Sarge’s gaze travel from his bunk, to the other bunk, to the door, which is solidly on Wash’s side of the room. “Well—obviously that doesn’t count!”

“It would count if the door was on your side!”

“It most certainly would not!”

“Would too!”

“Would—”

“ _Guuuuuuuuuys!_ ” Donut says imploringly. He’s sitting cross legged on top of his bunk, helmet settled in his lap. “Come on! We’re all one team out here! A tried and true threesome!”

Sarge snorts, muttering feverishly under his breath. “One team…no such thing!”

“Well, foursome if you count Lopez—”

“Sarge,” Wash says through gritted teeth. “We’ve been _one team_ for ages now—”

“Hogwash!”

“What—it’s not _hogwash_ , it’s the truth!”

“Well, if it’s the truth…” Sarge looks directly at Wash, victorious in a way that Wash has come to recognize, “then we’d be honest with each other, right?”

“I—what?”

“Well, that’s what teams do! They’re honest with each other!”

There’s a _definite_ trap here, but Wash doesn’t know what it is. “I…” Wash glances between him and Donut, who is nodding solemnly. “Sure, I guess.”

“Then,” Sarge says triumphantly, “you can tell us why you’re so twitchy about sharing a room!”

“I’m not _twitchy_ about us sharing a room!”

“Son,” Sarge says, “you’re twitcher than…than a….”

“ _Ha,_ ” Wash says, “you can’t think of anything, can you?”

“I know twitchy when I see it! And you, Agent Washington, are _twitchy_. Why don’t you wanna share a room? Huh?”

Wash pause. “Because….I don’t want to share a room with a filthy red… _obviously_ …”

“You’re lying."

There’s something sharp under the blustery exterior. “I—look. Sarge, Donut—it’s just….not a good idea. I think it’s at least asking the…General…if we can have separate quarters. I still want to be _close_ —we should keep an eye on each other, but—”

Donut’s face falls, and Wash feels immediately guilty. “Aw, but _Wash!_ It’ll be so much fun—”

“No,” Wash says, sharper than he means to. “It won’t. Look, I’ll just…talk to Doyle or something. See if he can find me a new room. A…a blue room.”

“Nonsense!” Sarge says. “We’re behind enemy lines! We have to stick together!”

“What—you just said we had to say on opposite sides of the room! Now you’re saying you need to stick together?”

“Washington,” Sarge says gravely, “you may be a Blue. But there’s no way in hell you’re becoming bunk buddies with one of these Feds.”

“Sarge—”

“Wash,” Donut says, “you have to stay with us. You just had brain surgery! We have to keep an eye on you!”

“You sleep naked or something?” Sarge interrupts.

“What—no! Of course I don’t sleep naked!”

“Tucker says he snores,” Donut stage whispers to Sarge. “Maybe that’s it.”

“I do _not_ snore!” Wash snaps, offended. “That’s—Tucker’s lying!”

“Is he, though?”

“Tucker wouldn’t know if I snore—I don’t sleep enough to snore—”

“A-ha!” Sarge says. “We’re getting warmer. An insomniac, eh?”

“Yes!” Wash says quickly. “Yes. That. That is what I am. An insomniac. I’ll keep you guys up all night.”

“Eh…” Sarge shrugs. “I’m something of an insomniac myself.”

“Oh!” Donut says, delighted. “You can keep each other company!”

“Donut, I’m sure Sarge doesn’t want to be kept company by a dirty blue—”

“A-ha! So you admit you’re a dirty blue!”

Wash pauses. “If I say yes, will you drop this?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, then I admit it.”

“You gotta say it!’

“I’m not _saying_ it—”

“Anyway,” Sarge says loudly, “Donut’s got a point! It’s been a while since I had anyone to listen to m’war stories, and what better time to tell them than when we’re burning the midnight oil? Face it, Frecklelancer. You ain’t getting out of this one.”

“Would you _please_ stop calling me that?”

“I think it’s a great nickname!” Donut gushes. “Your freckles are so _cute!_ ”

“You ain’t getting out of this one,” Sarge says again. “Besides! What if something happens and you aren’t here? Don’t think you’d ever forgive yourself if you weren’t able to sacrifice yourself heroically!”

Wash narrows his eyes. “Low blow, Sarge. Low blow.”

“Did it work?”

“I…”

“Yes!” Donut claps his hands. “Nice work, Sarge!”

“I don’t sleep well, alright?” Wash blurts. He can feel his face growing hot, and he folds his arms across his chest. “It’s just not a good idea.”

Unfortunately, neither one of them look particularly phased. “Oh, Wash, that’s okay! We all have bad nights every once in a while—”

“It’s a little more than a bad night, Donut.”

“But isn’t it better to wake up with your friends than all by yourself?”

“No, actually, it’s not—”

“Which one of those Blues did you almost off?”

Wash freezes before whipping around to Sarge. “ _What_ did you just say?”

Sarge shrugs. “That’s what’s got you so twitchy, right? You had a bad night during one of your blue team slumber parties—”

“We don’t have _Blue Team slumber parties_ ,” Wash says through gritted teeth, at the same time that Donut gasps, “you have Blue Team _slumber parties?!_ ”

“—and you woke up swinging a little too hard.” Sarge pauses expectantly. “So? Which Blue were we almost lucky enough to be rid of?”

Wash glances helplessly between Sarge and Donut before unfolding his arms, letting them fall limply to his sides. “Tucker. It was Tucker.”

Neither one of them look surprised. Donut brightens slightly, straightening up in his bunk. “Well, Tucker’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but—”

“And _you’re_ okay, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes,_ but—”

“And it all worked out, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but—Donut—”

“So then its all okay!”

“’Course it’s okay!” Sarge says breezily. “Washington here just likes to make things dramatic—”

“Stop it,” Wash says, voice sharpening. “It _was_ okay, but—it might not have been. You weren’t _there_ —you didn’t see—if Caboose—”

He turns away, inhaling deeply. It’s fine. He’s fine, and he has to get a grip. _They’re_ fine—it was ages ago and they’re fine—

Unless they’re not—

“Dramatic,” Sarge grunts.

Wash whirls back around. _“Sarge_ —”

“Oh, relax. Don’t get your blue lacy panties all in a bundle.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know, Sarge, I think Wash is more of a plaid or polka dot undies guy—”

_“Guys—”_

“So it’s settled, then?” Donut asks. “You’ll stay.”

Wash glances behind him towards the hallway, then back into the room, with it’s ridiculous red tape. He probably won’t be able to sleep very well anyway and besides, Donut is right: if something happens, it’s better for him to be here to protect them.

There are miles and miles between him and his team, and nothing he can do about it for now. But _this_ —this he can do.

He can protect what he has left.

“I’ll stay,” he says with a sigh, and turns to hide a smile as Donut cheers and high-fives Sarge.

* * *

Despite his promise, Wash can’t truly relax enough to sleep that night. Now that the surgery is a few days is a few days behind him, the need for vigilance outweighs his body’s need to sleep. Every sound makes him tense, every footstep propels him to a sit. He lies awake for hours, trying and failing not to imagine what Tucker and Caboose are doing right this second. _Are they sleeping? Are they hurting? Are they, are they, are they—_

_Alive—_

Wash pushes angrily to sit against the wall, glaring at the door until the first rays of light creep through the room. He feigns sleep as Sarge leaves the room, follows shortly by Donut, then does push-ups in the middle of the floor until Sarge comes back in and throws a pillow at him. “Gonna be late.”

Wash pauses mid push-up. “Late for what?”

“For our check-up with the good doctor!”

Wash snorts, then gets up and joins Sarge in getting dressed. He waits until they’re fully armored to turn and face him. “I’m not going.”

Wash doesn’t have to be able to see Sarge’s face to know that he’s rolling his eyes: he can hear the exasperation plainly in his voice. “Listen, Frecklelancer, it’s a simple check-up—”

“It’s _not_ a simple check-up,” Wash snaps. “Not for me, anyway. She just performed brain surgery on me.”

“All the more reason! Look, either you come quietly or I drag your sorry blue bottom—”

“What about blue bottoms?” Donut interjects brightly, flounces into the room with two soldiers in tow.

Wash tenses immediately, but Sarge does him one better, propelling himself to a stand and pointing dramatically between the newcomers. “A-ha! Fraternizing with the enemy, I see!”

“ _Saaarge_ ,” says Donut, wounded. “They’re not this enemy! This is Fitz, and this is Ali, and we just had the _best_ time at breakfast together. We all technically met the other day, but—Fitz, Ali, this is Sarge and—”

“Agent Washington,” interrupts the one who Donut introduced as Ali. “Yeah, we know who they are.”

Wash frowns, but the soldier doesn’t sound hostile, just curious. Before he can respond, Donut is speaking again. “So what were you guys talking about? Sounded like a lot of fun!”

“Go away, Private Biscuit!” Sarge snaps. “Agent Washington and I have things to discuss!”

Somehow, Donut manages to convey the fact that he’s pouting even through his helmet. “What things?”

“Leader things! Super secret war council things! You wouldn’t understand! Take twiddle-dee and twiddle-dum here and go see what that robot of ours is up to! Washington, you come with me—”

“I’m not going,” says Wash, and Donut rounds on him.

“Not going where? To your check-up? Aw, but Wash, I already went this morning and it wasn’t so bad at all—”

“What do you mean you went this morning?” Wash asks, frowning. “Why did you have to go?”

Donut waves a hand. “Just a general check-up, I had a super teeny concussion when we arrived but—”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Gee, I wonder,” mutters Sarge.

“Donut’s got a pretty hard head, he’s fine,” says Ali, tapping on the side of Donut’s helmet, and he, Fitz and Donut instantly dissolve into snorts and giggles at what’s clearly an inside joke.

“Alright,” Wash snaps, instantaneously and spectacularly annoyed by this display of easy camaraderie, “out, out, _out!_ ”

“But—”

Donut’s protests are cut off abruptly as Sarge strong-arms him out of the room, gesturing that Fitz and Ali should do the same. He leans against the door after shutting it, letting out a low whistle. “Gotta admit, the boy’s got some pretty solid infiltration techniques!”

Wash stares at him. “Infiltration techniques?”

“Of course! Why else would he be cozying up to our esteemed hosts? He’s angling for information, so there’s no need for you to be jealous!”

“Sarge, I…I really don’t think that’s what he’s doing—and I’m not _jealous,_ what a ridiculous thing to say—”

“’Course it’s what he’s doing! And don’t try to distract me! C’mon, get up, get moving—”

Fifteen minutes later, Wash only agrees to go see the doctor to shut Sarge up. “Don’t see what the big deal is,” Sarge grumps from several feet ahead of Wash as they walk down the hallway to the hospital wing, Wash walking as slowly as he can manage.

“I don’t like people in my head,” Wash says testily.

“If she hadn’t been in your head, you would’ve kicked the bucket, and then we’d be short one less whiny Blue—”

“I just…” Wash lowers his voice, glancing around. “What if she did something? Put something in there that shouldn’t be?”

Sarge waves a dismissive hand. “She didn’t. I made sure of that m’self!”

That brings Wash up short. “Wait. You were _there?_ They let you into my surgery?”

There’s a very pregnant pause before Sarge answers. “Well, I’d been shot too, hadn’t I? They were slapping a band-aid on me at the same time they were putting your head back together!”

There’s something odd about Sarge’s tone, but Wash can’t pinpoint just what it is. “Okay, well, how would you even know if she’d screwed something up or not?”

Sarge sighs. “In case you’ve forgotten, Blue, I have implants too. We all do!”

“And you know how they work?”

“You don’t?”

They stare at each other as Wash pauses to consider this. “Well…no. I wouldn’t even know if I were looking at if I were able to see mine.”

“Well, maybe that’s part of the problem. Someone’s gonna put fancy smancy wires in your brain, you learn everything you you can about them!” Sarge shakes his head. “Anyway, we’ve got more important things to worry about.”

“Such as?”

“Such as this whole situation! Something stinks to high heaven here, and I don’t like it one bit!”

Wash sighs. “Believe me, I don’t like it anymore than you do, Sarge, but I thought we’d agreed to just go along with everything for now. Unless you have a better plan?”

From the way Sarge fidgets, Wash can tell he wishes he does. “We just can’t get too comfortable here, is all I’m saying. Look, it’s been twelve hours and I’ve got princess bubblegum flirting with anything that moves, I’ve got Lopez trying to seduce all of the mechanics—”

“Really,” Wash deadpans. “Lopez. Seducing the mechanics.

“I caught him in a very compromising position with the blonde from sector three this morning! There’s a whole lot of flirting and fraternizing going on here that I don’t like one bit!”

“Two minutes ago, you said you were impressed by Donut’s infiltration techniques!” Wash makes little air quotes with his fingers.

Sarge ignores him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be flirting with someone?”

“And who have you been flirting with, Sarge?” Wash asks sarcastically. “What infiltration techniques have you been employing?”

To his surprise, Sarge stops, glancing wildly in either direction. “I haven’t been flirting with the good doctor! How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

Wash stares at him. Sarge hastens to continue. “Listen, princess freckles, the point is, we got men being held captive on the other side of the planet by the rebels. Low-lifes! _Cannibals who wear their enemies bones as a trophy!_ We can’t get too comfortable here!”

“I don’t think that’s exactly what’s…look, do you see me wanting to get comfortable?” Wash lowers his voice, motioning Sarge to keep walking with him. “We have no idea where we are, or where the rest of our guys are, either. We need to figure out a little more about what’s going on before we make any big moves. Then, the second we see an opportunity, we take it.”

They eye each other. “So we have an alliance, then? One team leader to another?” Sarge asks, sticking out his hand.

“Sarge, we’ve had an alliance since—” Wash cuts himself off with a sigh, reaching out to grasp Sarge’s hand. “Yes. We have an alliance.”

Sarge gives his hand a hearty shake, then gestures towards the infirmary doors just ahead of them. “C’mon, stop stalling and get your kiester in there.”

He gives Wash a little shove through the infirmary doors. Wash shuffles through reluctantly, Sarge following at an uncomfortably close distance. “Alright, I’m here, stop hovering,” Wash mutters in annoyance as Sarge bullies him into a chair.

“Agent Washington! I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up!”

Wash tenses as Dr. Grey bounds towards them, smiling brightly. She’s wearing all of her armor except her helmet, but Wash doesn’t have a moment’s confusion as to who she is. There’s simply no mistaking that voice. He’s surprised to see that she’s older than he is, her curly black hair streaked with grey, laughter lines etched into her tawny brown skin. She’s wearing glasses that make her dark brown eyes look huge, and she turns them to Sarge as Wash reluctantly pops the seals on his helmet. “Why, Sarge! How nice of you to accompany him!”

Sarge clears his throat, his voice uncharacteristically husky. “I thought I’d hang around in case you needed assistance!”

“ _So_ thoughtful of you. You _did_ have an up-close an personal view of the surgery, I suppose, didn’t you?”

Wash eyes Sarge suspiciously, who makes a point of avoiding his gaze. “Well, don’t let me stop you, Doctor!”

Dr. Grey claps her hands together. “O- _kay!_ Agent Washington, if you wouldn’t mind hopping up onto this table right here, I’ll take a peek and have you boys on your merry way in no time.”

“Why do I have to get on the table?” Wash asks at once. “Can’t I just sit in this chair while you look?”

“I’m afraid not. You see this pillow at the head of the table? It’s designed to minimize movement. It makes it easier for me to see what’s going on.” She offers him a smile. “I promise, just a quick peek!”

“Oh, get on the table, babylancer,” Sarge grunts when Wash hesitates further.

He knows that Sarge doesn’t miss the way Wash slips a small knife into his palm, climbing onto the table. Dr. Grey probably doesn’t miss it either, but she doesn’t comment, just hums merrily as Wash rests his forehead onto the pillow.

“Going to take your bandages off now,” Dr. Grey says cheerfully. The first touch of her fingers on the back of his neck is featherlight, but Wash jumps anyway. He grits his teeth hard against the gasp that wants to escape, clutches the knife in his fist and fights every single instinct he has, all of which are screaming at him that he’s in danger.

_You should’ve run, Wash—_

_They pried him open they ripped him out—_

“I’m afraid I need to ask you to stop moving so much, Agent Washington.”

“Sorry,” Wash mutters, flushing and grateful that neither of them can see his face. Sarge shifts slightly into Wash’s peripheral, and Wash focuses on that, the fire-engine red of Sarge’s armor grounding him somewhat.

He still continues to jerk and fidget, and Dr. Grey has to ask him to hold still several more times before Sarge sighs loudly. “Want me to find a sedative?”

“No,” Wash says, his voice sharpening as he pushes himself to a sit. Dr. Grey makes a distressed noise, her hands patting at the back of his head. “No sedative—”

“Now, Agent Washington! No sudden movements!”

Wash is about to call this whole thing off—this was a terrible idea and besides, he already knows his implants are fucked, he doesn’t need a check-up to tell him that—when Sarge puts a hand on the top of his head and drags him back down to a supine position. “You heard the lady! No sudden movements!”

Wash is so stunned by the sheer stupidity of Sarge’s action that he just lays there in shock, gaping at the floor. “What…did you just…are you—”

“Oh, shut up.”

Wash sputters into silence as he feels Dr. Grey’s fingers again. He realizes suddenly that Sarge’s palm is still cupping the top of his head to keep him still, the cold metal and ridges of his gloves a stark contrast to Dr. Grey’s small hands. He focuses on the former, whatever Dr. Grey and Sarge are saying fading into background noise until he hears Dr. Grey say, “and besides, isn’t this much easier to see when you’re not holding me at scalpel point, Sarge?”

Wash goes entirely still, eyes sliding to what little he can see of Sarge’s leg in his peripheral. Something is worrying at the very edge of his mind—the fuzzy fragment of a forgotten memory or nightmare, the sound of a voice that he knew and also didn’t, low and hard and menacing, as his head lay cracked up on an operating table:

_“One wrong move, doctor, and I kill you where you stand.”_

The same voice sounds now, gruff and exasperated. “You alive down there, blue?”

“Yeah,” Wash says slowly. “Yeah, I am.”

Wash doesn’t say anything more, just lays there quietly and lets Dr. Grey finish her work. “Everything looks normal!” she says eventually. “You can sit up now. I’ll just go get a fresh bandage for your implantation site—it might be sore for a few days—and you’ll be out of here in a jiffy.”

She flounces off and Wash sits up at once. He looks at Sarge, who has his arms folded over his chest, as if waiting for Wash to say something. Wash pauses, gives Sarge a calculating look, and says, “So, you really saw Lopez flirting with the mechanics?”

Sarge reanimates at once, throwing his arms theatrically into the air. “I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anything like it!” He launches into an explanation that’s still going on when Dr. Grey returns. She listens to them banter back and forth as she affixes the bandage to the back of Wash’s head and then turns to examine Sarge and says, “well, you are the four musketeers, aren’t you?”

Wash supposes there are far worse things to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if that second half is vaguely familiar, you're not crazy - it was a tumblr prompt I wrote YEARS ago and reworked for this fic. if you recognized it then that means you've been reading my nonsense since like 2016 which is amazing (y'all are amazing regardless, HUGS)
> 
> also anytime one of you expresses delight at seeing my OCs again i literally ASTRAL PROJECT IN TO THE STRATOSPHERE **DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS**
> 
> I'M IN A GLASS BOX OF EMOTION
> 
> thank you all so much for reading <3


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